


olo

by Ouma_Kokichi



Category: no - Fandom
Genre: no
Language: Ελληνικά
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ouma_Kokichi/pseuds/Ouma_Kokichi
Relationships: no - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	olo

“ Your job is WAY to dangerous. Why would you do it?” Is the typical response when I tell them what my job is. Every person I tell my job to say my job is dangerous. Most people would not do this. I may not be most people, but I do not disagree, which leads me to the reason why I am writing this, so people can see. My friend, Leon Kuwata told me it was good I was “ fulfilling my dream as a writer “, or something strange like that.

I am at my part-time job right now, working at my father’s famous antique shop,” Lily’s Antique Shop”, named after my late mother who loved collecting things like those.

Like the shop, I was also named after my mother. My name is Rose. Rose Raspello. With my mother’s pale, almost ghostly green eyes, my father’s black hair, and a medium height between the both of them. The only female left in my small family of four. Me, Leo (my little brother),Milae (my smaller little brother), and my father.

“Lily’s Antique Shop” is full of old, dusty things my father finds somewhere, things like portraits or broken snow globes, and he refines them. The shop smells like dust and my mom’s old perfume, or something like that. Makes him cry every time, although I do not know if it is his dust allergies or my mother’s perfume.

Although it is the burning summer right now, it feels as though I am freezing to death behind this wood encrusted desk as I write this. My father loves this old shop’s temperature like that though. He says it “brings back the seasons”, the freezing cold winter is what he truly means.

The phone is ringing, the sound only meaning bad news, like the call of my late mother. 

Apparently, there has been some murders in the alleyways of the 7th street that the cops believe was the doing of a recent serial killer we could not find out about. They were all found in the deep alleyways of an assortment of numbers, all murdered with a sharp object we all suspect is a knife. The latest victim to the killer was a female named Sayaka Maizono, a 21 year-old heading to her job. The only injury was a knife again, fortunately. I told them I would head over.

This case is very strange. Or weird, peculiar, abnormal. Whatever words that fit you.

I will be truthful, I am a very logical person. At school, I solved the riddles my math teacher put on the board easily and usually got A’s, I do not cringe at the sight of blood, I also carry a gun around because of my main job.

But this case that is NOT logical. It just simply does not make sense. 

People usually murder over a personal grudge, not just for pure fun. Sadly, we do not even know why they were murdering yet.

Wouldn’t a normal and decent human being stop killing random people in random alleyways when the security rose? No… This is not a normal person, it is a psychopath that murders people.

It is a new day. I decided not to waste any pages and just stay on the same page because of global conservation, that went extremely bad in this time of year.

I decided to go to the scene and check out the body, hoping for her to rest in peace.

The alleyways were dark and shifty, with the smell of dried blood and trash.It always got darker as you headed through, breaking any illusion you are safe- that I AM safe. A funny word, really.

Like all the others, after doing my prayers, I checked the body’s breast pocket. Like always, the body’s pocket had a one-hundred dollar bill.

An abnormal consistency was kept in all the victims. They all died in the alleyway, because of the sharp object and how there is no blood trails. The murderer would not have time to clean it up. Even when there was an incinerator near by, the killer never put the bodies in it, probably because they could not lift them or because they ran out of time. The murderer would have to have a hundered dollars for each murder, because all the victims had wallets and it made no sense unless they were in a hurry, which family or friends close to them said no to.

The order of the latest alleyways they were murdered in was 1st, 10th, 3rd, 7th. Unless the serial killer was using a type of anonymous code the police could not figure using 11037, it made no sense. We have investigated every one of the victim’s cases and nothing is close or similar to one another.

To sum it up, we have nothing else to go on about it than the fact that they are all in alleyways in a random order, had a breast pocket with a one hundred dollar the day they were killed, and that they were all killed with a sharp object assumed to be a knife…

I am back at the shop, finally, after a lot of thinking and theorizing.

Wait, somebody called. My friend Leon -mentioned in the beginning- has asked me to see the scene. The most recent murder, to clarify.

I may be a law abiding citizen, but I guess I can bend the rules sometimes.

He keeps on talking on how I am doing my “ life-long dream” again as I headed with him there. It is annoying. His light blue eyes were always determined, with a proud smirk and bright red hair, a small beard growing on his chin.

I note down the way he looks at the body, in other words, with a blank stare. Some people do that when they see a dead body, it is kind of like how they just shut down, like a broken machine. Something with psychology for sure.

He asked me about the murder weapon, which was a knife, unidentified in type. Leon seems to be noting down things, too. When he asked me what I thought about why every single person was murdered with a hundred dollar bill in their pocket, I had to think for a moment.

There were two ideas in my mind of why they all had a hundred dollar bills.

The first one being that the serial killer tried to lure them into the alleyway using a hundred dollars, stabbed them, then left them with the money. Which would not make too much sense because the victims were not too poor, and all had decent jobs.

The second one was that the serial killer is trying to leave behind a trail so we know it is them. Of course an average person would not be in their right mind if they did that. They must be rich in order to do that,too, to not care. But that would not add up either.

Leon then proceeded to explain to me, when I did not answer, that maybe, “The serial killer ain’t trying to kill, maybe he is being forced to. That the hundred dollar bill was to ask for forgiveness. Like a hitman… kinda.”

Before correcting his grammar, I asked him why he thought they were a ‘he’. He just shrugged and told me that killing someone would most likely be a male. That did not make too much sense and was slightly rude, but oh well.

This is the next day, my phone ringing a soft tune again.

I cannot bare to write this, but another strange thing happened today. 

It was not another clue, nor was it another good thing. As I said, the phone ringing was never a good sign. I could exaggerate on and on but that would not explain what the reason the police were calling me again was. 

Like I said, I am not an emotional person, but this really hurt. Mentally, I mean.

We -me and the police- have figured out who the murderer was. No, it was not a rich person. No, it was not a stranger. And no, it was not someone I would ever expect if my life repeated one-thousand, four-one over.

It was Leon.

Yes. Leon Kuwata. THE Leon Kuwata who hated the thought of death. The one that forced me to write this stuff down and encouraged me to do my life-long dream that never existed in the first place. He was someone I have been friends with in this small town for ages. Someone I could basically trust with all my secrets.

I feel… I do not believe I can even describe this feeling. Like how you can explain how the voice in your head does not have a voice, you can make it have a voice, but is never too clear.Or a foggy memory of a friend that you cannot remember.

Leon called me, saying how I was free to go to places. Explore. Just do stuff. His usual small talk that made this seem like any other normal call on the phone, which I burned into my soul. He did not even talk about how he murdered them or why.

I could not even talk to him, I felt it was hopeless if I tried anyway. As I was trying to piece together why, I remembered something he told me while trying to search for the murderer.

He told me “ Friends do what they have to do. You know, I met an old friend. He told me… Never mind. Anyways, he’s travelling to Arizona. Gilbert, Arizona. A small school in the middle called Eduprize, doing something important .”Or something like that.

I hung up.

I pieced things together, accumulating a theory in silence beside the whirring sound of the freezing ac.

I knew it was just a theory of why Leon killed those people, a small theory that probably made no sense to other people, but that was how most things went.After all, my job is of a detective, with a new life-long dream to become a writer.

Hey Leon? I will take up your offer.

Just… Stay out of trouble until I get back. 

I, Rose Raspella, will figure out the true culprit. Even if it costs me my life and soul.


End file.
